Saturday, July 13, 2019


You have tortured me for my whole life, a criminal, who deserves to be in prison. I hope you do get to fuck your granddaughters, but – woo woo -- get caught. Oh, what fun, using fancy lawyers to show the photos of you in the striped pantaloons, near the vortices, yet not covering a crack in the rock with your ass, all to show how at one with nature you are.

What a lovely, sadistic whore you always were. I was na├»ve and trusted you when I got in the car. But you hadn’t buckled me in, or shut the door properly. I rolled out of the car and down a hill. I was fine, but my white tights got dirty. I didn’t know it was deliberate, another attempt made upon my young life, as only a retarded mother would be so stupid as to use neither seat belt nor car seat, and, on top of that, fail to close the door. I used to keep a list of people who might kill me, should I turn up dead, but I didn’t even think of you as a perpetrator. You, hobbled Frankenstein tit monster, you. Hobbled gimp trash.

Saturday, July 6, 2019

My Mother Made Me a Faux Dyke

After two disastrous attempts at affairs with Arab men while in college, and one blonde drummer, disgusting in every way, worse than the others, indeed, I stopped sleeping with men, believing that the horror of heterosexuality lay not in my choice of partners, but the horror of heterosexuality, completely. I began to have sexual dreams of miniaturized women who bit my toes. This was enough to convince me, at least, of repressed bisexuality, and that I no longer wanted to sleep with men at all.

Another year passed of celibacy as I tried to figure out my sexual preference. Now I was convinced I had repressed my true identity as a lesbian. But the experiences were odd. I dated one woman for a few weeks. She became intrusive immediately, leaving more of her things at my apartment each time she visited me. She liked being spanked. I am not dominant, but I paddled her anyway, very hard, harder than she wanted, until I realized I was hitting her because I hated her, not out of any feelings of intimacy shared between us.

I moved to San Francisco. This was the worst, as there were many dykes for me to have sex with. And I did believe I moved there to have sex with as many women as possible. But I found myself unable to orgasm with anyone, except one woman who crushed me, so that I masturbated myself to get off, all the while fantasizing about being degraded by men. I never told anyone. I didn’t think much of it either.

I found myself more and more disgusted by the women I had relationships with. I bore being fucked with a strap-on, but I felt no pleasure. As you, Dear Reader, may know, the dildo is hard and inflexible, not at all like human flesh might be. Acting romantically proved to be the most difficult for me to pull off. One woman wanted to spend the night with me, and I said no. She looked like she was about to cry. “You’re brutal, man,” she said before leaving. She never realized that I looked down on her stupidity, and was just using her for free cocaine.

I began to date men when I was twenty-eight years old, but the men I chose were scumbags, as the first ones had been. I met one man with whom I had an affair, his extramarital, who was peddling pictures of a woman who’d been killed by her boyfriend while being choked by him during sex. I lost all my dyke friends at that point, some spoke so harshly of my affair that I parted ways with them crying.

My situation was no different in Tucson, in terms of choosing awful men, except that my mother was now part of my life, and she encouraged me to have relationships with the most mediocre, but wealthy, men with whom I’d started relationships. This reminded me of when I dated a male model in high school. He said, one day, after I asked “Do you care what I have to say?”, “No, I don’t.” That was surely enough for me to stop seeing him. I told my mother whose response was, “Oh, but he’s so good-looking.”

The disgust with partners was probably equal between males and females, except there was a redeeming feature with women: no chance at all of pregnancy. My mother’s awful fate of having given birth to me had an impact equal to no other. I did not want to be inseminated. That would have been following the repetition compulsion way too far. My parents' sexualization of my childhood led to promiscuity without any pleasure. I did not want to multiply the victims through biological reproduction.

Most women do not link their promiscuity and prostitution with childhood abuse, neither did any of my therapists in twenty years of wasted time. My husband, David, is the one who helped me muddle through my issues, connecting the dots in a way no one else was able to do, through the spontaneous memories I had; the nightmares and the sleepless nights haunting me for over two decades.

Why Daddy Got Angry, and Tammy Went under Her Stupid Tree

A Collaborative Piece by Jennifer S. Chesler and David C. McLean

I said before how Tammy made tummy noises when she rotted under the tree. Daddy says that it's a cypress tree and fun for the dead folks. He says that it's good for making the gas disperse like farts in the wind. Anyway, Tammy was my "tummy mommy,” or so she said she was, though only god knows who my birth daddy was. I don't give him a big D, not the birth daddy. A real Daddy earns a big D with his big Willy.

Anyway, she, Tammy as she was, said I had to work at Taco Bell or Emergency Dementia Care Plus, where they pay close to minimum wage, and she would be happy every time I cried. And I had to have friends who were more ordinary, because other people have big snobby willies, and read books about how it's good to have big willies in Latin. Good Christians only read about normal willies, and they say size doesn't matter.

But you don't know Daddy loves you, unless it hurts really badly, so you get good and wet and slide down his pole when he slaps you, never forgetting to say "Thank you, Daddy", or he plunges into your poop-hole.

Anyway, Daddy was so angry at Tammy that he put her in the ground after her to death with The Phenomenological Constitution of the Common Cockwomble, just to make her die even more sadly. My alleged brother was out cottaging at the time, since he said every drop of willy juice was a compliment to his haircut, and barbers cost good money.

Anyway, Daddy says he loves his little Jen-Jen, and he doesn't mind if I get angry, hit him and yell. In fact, it can give him an extra inch and make the shaft powerful, thick and veiny; so it's all good, so Daddy says. Tammy didn't want me to be angry, not even at Daddy. Daddy says that my pretty mouth is best to make Daddy happy, especially if I yell at him first.

Anyway, he hit Tammy with the big book when she made me cry. That’s when she died for good. If it's true what he says, then Daddy he loves me a lot, and my pussy gets very sore sometimes because of this.

Today, Daddy came so hard that I burst a blood vessel in my right eye. I said he was trying to mar my beauty so that our neighbor didn’t give me that lusty look anymore, the one that makes Daddy want to kill him, or any other man, woman, or beast that should give me such a look. Daddy has the right to do that, because his Willy is a nine-incher, and he fills me up to my womb.

I try and resist Daddy, how good he makes me feel inside, when he spanks me and fucks me. He says that I have to stop doing this, or I will never have an orgasm. I’ve never had one before, except when Tammy rubbed my little button with her fat fingers. Daddy says he has made me orgasm already and that I just don’t want to remember, because then I’ll forget about Tammy, and she’s not even cold in the ground.

Daddy makes me watch Judge Adams’ infamous spanking porno video, the one he didn’t even get hard in. We both think the fact that Judge Adams doesn’t get hard when he spanks his spastic daughter shows how sick he really is. When I told Daddy I wanted to meet Judge Adams and his now ex-wife, who also spanks the spastic daughter, he said, “No, you little whore! Only I spank you. The spastic is a furry, and no one likes furries anyway.” I don’t know what to make of this.

Does it show that Daddy loves me, the spastic, Judge Adams’s wife, or all of us? He’s unpredictable sometimes. One time he left me at the gas station with no underwear on underneath my dress. I felt so exposed when he did this. When he shut the passenger side door, the window was open. I said, “Daddy, no! Don’t leave me here all alone.” He said that when a Daddy has a nine-inch willy that he can leave his daughter anywhere, because she will always love him. Then he added, “And I will always love you,” but he drove off so that I had to walk back to our house, the whole six miles it took to get there.

I sweat a lot on the walk home. When I put my key in the front door, the lock turned. Daddy locked the door again, but I was able to turn the key quickly enough to get in the foyer. He was naked, and his willy was hard as a rock. I took it in my little hand and said, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” breathing heavily enough so that he said, “Jen-Jen, I think you’re going to come. Relax for Daddy, now.” I wiped my brow, feeling his huge willy press against my little and bruised body.

“You want Daddy to leave you at another gas station, you little whore? I saw you looking at the attendant. He didn’t even have a cock, you stupid little slut. You’d better do exactly as Daddy says, or you’ll be walking a lot, young lady.” “No, Dad, no,” I said, repeating his favorite line from the Judge Adams spanking video. Really, it’s the only line he’s fed me that I can remember, so I use it a lot. I don’t remember things well. He’s a good Daddy.

He pulls me to the sofa by the hair and throws me over the back of the sofa. He spits in his hand and rubs his swollen cock with it, before thrusting the whole length in my tight little poop hole. It hurts so much I shudder with pleasure. I try to fart and he comes real hard. Later he posts a Cum Fart video online, it gets hundreds of likes and he’s so proud of me. He lets me ride him and even suck him clean afterwards. He’s the best Daddy in the whole world, as he constantly points out. I love Daddy so much. He says I better, or else.

Friday, July 5, 2019

Pissing on Daddy

by Jennifer S. Chesler and David C. McLeanfrom our next book together, The Philosophy of Extremism IV.

She has on her short short pajamas, with lace on the sides, in light gray cotton, and a light gray camisole, also with matching lace. I love cotton, and her well thought-out choice in a silver-gray eye shadow. I tell her to leave her clothes on and get over my lap. She deserves a spanking. She knows it too. She dawdles, so I get more firm.

"Get over here," I exclaim. "I'll take off your clothes."

She crawls over to me, lying across my lap. I pull down her light gray shorts, pulling up her camisole so her big tits are fully exposed.

I spank her ass hard.

"Let's see if you enjoyed it," I say. I slide my thumb up her cunt.

I'm so embarrassed, I'm a dirty naughty girl and Daddy is big and a good man because he gets so hard his willy doesn't even bend in my little pie. He yells out "Oh, you salacious little whore!" and spanks me so hard that i can smell my own stinky juice run out of me. Doesn't he know I'm in the wet shower? Doesn't he know I'm peeing right here in the bed?

"Why are you so wet, you little slut?" I ask her.

"I'm taking a shower," she says. Damn little cunt.

"A shower?" I say. "Right now?" She can't believe herself. She's can't be that dumb. I slam my cock into her "showering" pussy so the whole shaft goes into her. She's not usually able to take my whole length. She moans.

"Oh, It hurts a lot, Daddy," she says. I almost shoot my load since the little whore knows how excited this makes me. But I slow down, and hold her arms out in a crucified pose while I ram my full length into her in a slow but very forceful piledriver. She squeals in pain and grunts with pleasure at the same time, like the filthy little animal she is.

I know she has to pretend not to like what I do in order to get me more excited. I hate her for it though. It's a sick game. She drives me nuts when she resists me. I twist her nipples and pull them hard. She groans now, leaving her moans behind. I slap her face, and feel her pussy drip even more with cunt juice.

"Damn you, you fucking whore," I say. Fuck. Her pussy gets wetter. I can't hold my load in much longer.

"I'm going to come," I say.

"No, not the white stuff, Daddy!" she says, remembering the pre-ejaculate line I like the most.

He starts bellowing like a dying whale, his cock so swollen and long it's in my little baby womb, stretching out my tight little hole, my little pie, and I say "Where's my mommy, Daddy? I want my mommy, I'm scared." He twists his hips and ends up so deep in me I feel myself stretched to bursting as I squeeze my cunt muscles as hard as I can. The jizz fills my little hole so it runs out onto the bed and the sweat drips from his face onto mine.

"You're a good girl, Jen-Jen", he says. "I'll paddle you later if you want." Daddy is such a tease, my swollen pussy will be throbbing all day now. I can't wait.

Thursday, July 4, 2019

Piss Play with Mother

When my mother lured me to Fort Lauderdale from my apartment in San Francisco – you might remember this, Dear Reader – by tricking me into what she said would be the immediate release of my inheritance from her dead father should I go to my parents’ home. This was, of course, given an extra urgency for her by our six years spent apart, mediated by her newfound interest in “working on our relationship”; well, after having worked on my first novel for five and a half years, I was ready for the money with which to finish it, and would have gone just about anywhere I did not have to work to finish :.

It was clear, after a day or two (when our cats battled, causing me to, unfortunately, intervene between the two pets, thus doing much damage to my arm, resulting in a visit to urgent care for shots to prevent some horrible outcome, especially since their cat, Dave, was indoor/outdoor, while my cat, Momo, a beautiful Maine Coon, was an indoor) that my parents and I could not cohabit.

So they loaned me money (until the inheritance came through, and I could follow my plans to go to Europe), exactly half of what I had planned on for my, hopefully, permanent trip abroad. I did finish :, and did so in Fort Lauderdale, because my mother kept telling me that the executor of the estate would not release my money, which, at first, I believed. We even took a Saturday or Sunday morning walk in Birch State Park, walked through the underground passageway to the beach, ate fruit she brought, and bobbed in the ocean.

One day, we were in the Atlantic, close to each other, of course, wearing swimsuits, when I felt a strange warmth upon my legs. Horror struck me. “Did you just piss?” I asked my mother. She seemed happy, smiled sheepishly, and said, “Yes.” I quickly swam to what I considered a safe distance from the urine. She kept following me in the water, so I had to get out. She did too, offering me, as usual, fruit she’d brought for us. But, on this day, to go along with pissing on me, she produced disgusting bruised peaches for our consumption. “No, thanks,” I said, expanding my body full-length on the towel, of course protected by a high SPF sunscreen.

When half of my inheritance was almost gone, with no idea given by my mother as to when I’d receive the other half, I asked her for the executor’s telephone number. I called him, an attorney my grandfather had known since he’d started practicing law, and introduced myself, as we’d not met. He said the money had been available right away, and did not know why my mother delayed asking him for its disbursal to me. He sent a check immediately.

As soon as I told my mother I received the money, informing her also that I knew the money was available while I was still in San Francisco, she wanted me to write her a check for the half I had borrowed in Fort Lauderdale, and to do so immediately, while she watched me write it, and this after receiving an undisclosed, but, large sum of money from my grandfather’s estate for herself. My grandfather had had not actually left anything to my mother and her brother, though she did allege that my grandfather left them the remainder of the trust fund that my grandmother had set up for me and my brother, so my mother sued his last wife for an undisclosed amount, winning the case.

Of course, the relatively small amount I’d borrowed after being lied to by my mother about the necessity of living in Fort Lauderdale for six months, unnecessarily, angered me greatly, and I did not feel she had a right to half of my inheritance, considering that she had obliged me to stay in Fort Lauderdale for a long time, not to mention her urination on my legs (not unlike a dog might choose a fire hydrant). Yes, had I known, I’d have stayed in San Francisco, thus avoiding my mother pissing on my legs and giving me bruised fruit.

I can’t say everything worked out for me, as the loan I had to repay to my mother cut a year off my stay in Europe, and precluded the possibility of a permanent move there. My greedy mother was peeved I’d started a new novel in Holland, much less one entitled An Honest Day of Blowjobs, and I, having stayed for the allotted time in the apartment in Amsterdam, had no money left. I had no other option but to ask my parents for help. They yelled at me for a long time, deciding to help me this one last time, but only if I returned to the United States, and only if I picked the cheapest plane ticket available, to some place, most likely, not very desirable to me.

My mother wished the worst for me for my entire life. She knew I was in a mad frenzy around Ivy League university interview time, resulting from a woman to whom she connected me on the school board of Broward County, who recruited me for a trip to Minnesota to join The Hunger Project. Unbeknownst to me, this “charity” was a front for The Forum, derived from the cult group “est” from the 1970s, originally begun by Werner Erhard, a guru when it came to money-making through extreme brainwashing techniques.

I discovered the background to The Hunger Project on my own, following several suspicious incidents. I disavowed having any part of the work I’d spent two years doing for this organization taken account of by the Ivy League school interviewers, crazed by the truth behind the program infiltrating the school system of Broward County, and erroneously believing that the revelation of such truth would make me more appealing as a prospective student; the appeal even heightened, no doubt, by my renunciation of the work I’d done, which was significant.

My mother, about three months before the interviews, had said to me that I was acting crazy about the information I’d uncovered, that I should “calm down,” but knowing I was still mad by the time of my interviews, she did not recommend rescheduling them, or any sort of buffer to my mad affect. I was not accepted by any school that interviewed me, but was accepted by every school where I didn’t have an interview, a few of these with full scholarships.

At that time, my dead grandmother had left a trust fund for the education of my brother and me. I was able to pick one that had a good study abroad program. To study abroad was cheaper than Tufts for the year in Paris, the city I’d chosen, having studied French since kindergarten, but my parents, finding Europe to be “the height of snobbery”, refused to listen to any information about my plans, so that I tore the paperwork up and went back to Tufts, defeated once again. They already knew that I only chose Tufts for this specific reason.

I’m sure they were happy with this, as they were nice to me that year, not harassing me about needing to work for living expenses (which were not, my mother claimed, covered by the trust, and were not something, my mother also claimed, that they themselves could afford). Instead, being a sophomore, I’d figured out their methods of torture, so I got jobs each semester and during vacations without the vicious “prompting” my parents felt obliged to give me.

I don’t have contact with my once-mother or once-alleged-father anymore, but about six months ago, still having contact then, my once-mother threw in my face that I had no student loans. What this proved I do not know. She must be proud to have had her dead mother’s money pay for her own obligation to provide an education for her children.

Forgiveness, we are told, is always possible. I might forgive the urination on the beach, but the peaches were disgusting.

Monday, July 1, 2019

No One, or, Groomed to Be a Whore

No One, or, Groomed to Be a Whore

When I was little, my once-mother said, “You’ll never be able to keep a man,” but I didn’t understand what she meant. I only had her, but there was hatred in her voice, leading me to assume ‘keeping a man’ was something important, though the meaning was kept a secret throughout my elementary school years. She repeated that I’d not be able to ‘keep a man’ at times when I displeased her. By the time she stopped torturing me and sexually abusing me, I was in sixth grade. At that point, I understood what she meant.

So, as I progressed through life, doing well in school, though disliked by my peers for the most part, I crossed marriage off of my list at a young age, becoming first celibate, then a lesbian, then a prostitute. I was a prostitute for eleven years. I had a john named Steve Tweet, of whom I have elsewhere written, who had used a ‘penis pump’ to enlarge his sexual organ, hurting it in the process, to the point at which he couldn’t get hard, much less ejaculate. I saw him about five times before his penis worked. He was a generous tipper too, which is almost always a good thing for a prostitute.

After he ejaculated, he invited me to dinner, not as a prostitute, but as a ‘Jennifer.’ He was a lawyer, my age, in Phoenix, who, much to my surprise, was dissatisfied with the legal field, instead taking an online course in accounting, working for his father out of the house he grew up in, for whatever his father’s business was. I forget. Anyway, we had a ‘successful’ non-prostitute/john meal, and he offered me a job that he knew of, one outside of the sex industry. He told me that he loved me, which gave me the idea of using him to get out of the awful line of work I’d pursued, since I knew my parents would give me financial help, if I was in a relationship with an acceptable man, in their eyes, so I proposed to him on the spot, and he accepted, swallowing my bait hook, line, and sinker.

Like his father’s business, I forget what type of business this temporary secretarial job he got for me was. He brought his cat, Xena, to my double-wide trailer in Tucson, driving back and forth to Phoenix because of his apartment there. I had a cat, Rex, who liked to rim his cat. I invited my parents to meet him. He would meet their middle class standards for an appropriate partner. He and my mother exchanged email addresses, beginning a clandestine email correspondence behind my back for ten years, even though our so-called relationship lasted only a month. I didn’t know about their continued written contact.

Then, after having dinner with both his mother and father, we went back to the trailer and got into a tremendous argument. I tried to appease him, as the only reason I was in a relationship with him, going so far as to propose marriage to him, was to secure money from my parents for living expenses in law school, though no one knew this until, perhaps, now. I know this sounds sleazy, but I was desperate to stop fucking strangers, and, as the story indicates, he was a most unsavory character. I planned on dumping Steve when I arrived in the city where I’d attend law school. So we had this argument, about what I forget, culminating in him screaming at me, “My mom thinks you’re an elitist snob because you like James Joyce!” That did it. I thought, Fuck this idiot, giving my perspective of Joyce at the top of my lungs. He said, “I won’t talk to you until you take Zyprexa!” and stormed into my bedroom.

I am and was bipolar, but tried to avoid antipsychotics, especially Zyprexa, which I’d been given samples of. It soothed me so much that one day I ate four chocolate bunt cakes in row. Within a short period of time, I couldn’t pull a single pair of pants up above my knees. I stopped taking the drug. “You know how fat I get on Zyprexa!” I screamed down the hall at him. He did not answer, but, exiting my bedroom, walked towards my phone. He called my parents, ruining my chance to get out of the sex industry, due to my being $10,000 short for law school, and told them I would never pass the mental fitness part of the bar exam, and he would know, or so he said, despite being mentally ill himself. “You won’t take Zyprexa, so there’s nothing I can do for you anymore,” he said, leaving the trailer with all of his possessions, except Xena’s litter box.

“I’d like to pick up the litter box,” he said, calling me the next day. “Fuck off,” I said, “they cost $5.00. You’re not coming back here.” “Then you can leave it on the porch. My mother will come and get it,” he proposed. “Fuck your mother.” I called my parents, who’d inherited at least one and a half million dollars, and told them Steve and I had broken up. They said that they couldn’t help me with the ten grand, as they had not received any of my dead grandfather’s money. The next day I put my prostitution ad back up, not even sad to leave the office job he’d gotten for me. They fired me the day after we split up. I had always been a whore to my parents anyway.